Grantchester Grind Page 6

  ‘I got to tell you something, Professor Bursar,’ he said in a tone that was almost kindly, ‘I got to tell you. With figures like these you’re wasting your time. You don’t need double entry. This is all one way. Like financially temperaturewise it’s absolute zero.’ He shook his head. ‘I never seen like it since Maxwell took a swim in the sea some place.’

  ‘Don’t you mean BCCI?’ asked Kudzuvine. ‘They buried Maxwell Mount Olive.’

  ‘Popeye,’ said Skundler. ‘Of Olives. O fucking F, for Chrissake.’

  In his chair the Bursar looked on miserably. All his hopes had been dashed. ‘I’m very sorry,’ he said, ‘but there you are. We are a very poor college and I’m obviously wasting your time …’

  Skundler raised a hand. ‘Wasting our time? Professor Baby, you are not wasting our time one microsecond. You need us. That’s what we are here for. You’re not wasting our time. I haven’t seen anything better than this since the Berlin Wall came down. Suddenly it’s freedom all the way for guys like Soros.’

  ‘Really?’ said the Bursar. ‘How very interesting. You do mean Soros the financier who sold sterling …? Oh well, never mind. You actually think Mr Hartang will provide some funding for Porterhouse?’ He said it uncertainly and Kudzuvine laid a kindly though heavy hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Think, Professor Bursar? We don’t think – and I heard that, Skundler – we know. The thing is wrapped up right now.’

  ‘Shrinkwise,’ said Skundler, ‘solid plastic. You’ve got it made, no question.’

  ‘Well, there is just one question,’ said the Bursar, feeling suddenly extremely happy and confident. ‘I mean … I mean why should Mr Hartang be so very generous?’

  ‘Generous?’ said Skundler. ‘Of course he’s generous. He’s got rich being generous. He’s a philanthropist.’

  ‘He’s that too,’ Kudzuvine agreed, ‘though since he had that heart coronary thing he’s had to go easy on the girls. Takes it out of him. I said to him one time, “Mr Hartang you want to go easy. Take it the Clinton way like they’re on their fucking knees praying to the thing.”’

  ‘Well, I must say …’ the Bursar began but Skundler stopped him.

  ‘Don’t. It’s better not to with K.K. around. Like he gets everything wrong. It’s because he’s a moron.’

  ‘Mormon,’ said Kudzuvine. ‘It’s got an M in it.’

  ‘See what I mean?’ Skundler said to the Bursar. ‘Like ignorance is a religion with him.’

  ‘That ain’t ignorant. We did a series one time on Mormons outside Salt Lake City. Real nice.’

  By the time the Bursar went back to Cambridge the ledgers had been copied with some difficulty and he was feeling both elated and peculiar. In so far as he had been able to understand what Kudzuvine and Ross Skundler had been saying, Transworld Television Productions and Edgar Hartang were going to pour money into Porterhouse not only because Hartang was into philanthropy but, as Kudzuvine had put it, ‘Cambridge is where it’s at. You got it all.’

  ‘It’s nice of you to say so but –’

  ‘Listen. You live there. Cambridge. Place has got it over Disneyworld every which way. History, DNA, professors, a whole bunch of churches and stuff. Geniuses all over town like Hawking. You read The History of Time. Great book. Teaches you. I been up to take a look-see and it was something else with all those cunts on the river and lawns like they give them facials every day. Cambridge. Man, Cambridge makes virtual reality look like it’s not happening.’

  The Bursar felt rather the same way about Transworld Television. He still couldn’t see how a man like Hartang could get rich by giving money away. It didn’t make sense.

  6

  Purefoy Osbert’s trip to London was pretty peculiar too. Purefoy wasn’t sure why or rather how he had been chosen to become the Sir Godber Evans Memorial Fellow at Porterhouse and Goodenough wasn’t sure he wanted to meet him face to face and had to be forced to do so by Vera who said he’d be pleasantly surprised; and Lady Mary made it a condition of her interviewing Dr Osbert that either Lapline or Goodenough – preferably both – should inspect him first to make sure that he was hygienic, wasn’t an alcoholic, wasn’t a raving racist who advocated mass transportation of black people like Dr Lamprey Yeaster from Bristol, and, most importantly, wasn’t from Grimsby.

  ‘Grimsby? What’s she got against Grimsby?’ asked Mr Lapline when he read the letter. ‘Perfectly respectable town. Cold in winter of course.’

  ‘If you remember the candidate from Grimsby was into –’ Goodenough began.

  Mr Lapline had remembered. ‘Oh God,’ he said violently. ‘You don’t mean to tell me Lady Mary actually interviewed him?’

  ‘I think he tried to get into her too,’ Goodenough went on. ‘As she told it, she was lying on this chaise longue with a bad leg –’

  ‘I warn you, Goodenough, if you lose Lady Mary Evans’ account, I’ll … I’ll …’ Another gall-bladder spasm silenced him.

  ‘That’s why we’ve got to inspect Dr Purefoy Osbert,’ said Goodenough. ‘I thought if we took him out to lunch at the Savoy Grill … Now what’s the matter?’

  Mr Lapline explained what the matter was and why he bloody well wasn’t going anywhere near the Savoy Grill or any other restaurant in London and if Goodenough seriously thought …

  ‘All I meant was we’d be able to tell whether he’s house-trained and knows how to use a knife and fork properly and that sort of thing. We can’t possibly have some ghastly uncouth fellow going up to Porterhouse. Or molesting Lady Mary.’

  Mr Lapline looked up at him curiously. ‘Goodenough,’ he said finally, ‘there are times when I wonder if you are entirely sane. If you can think back that far, you may remember that when I first read that list, I said they were all impossible candidates and that swine from Grimsby ought to be behind bars. And now you have the gall to tell me we can’t have some uncouth fellow going to Porterhouse. The whole damned lot aren’t even faintly couth.’

  ‘But no one else wanted to take the post and we had to find her some candidates,’ said Goodenough. ‘Anyway I’ll wine and dine this Purefoy Osbert chap and tell you what it was like. I think I’ll have Omelette Arnold Bennett.’ And on this unfortunate note he left the office.

  *

  In the event he was pleasantly surprised by Purefoy who was relatively well dressed for an academic and was actually wearing a tie for the occasion and wasn’t unduly impressed by being taken to the Savoy Grill. Having passed that test with flying colours – Purefoy had accepted a glass of dry sherry rather than the extra dry martini Goodenough had offered him and had then quietly had two glasses of wine with the meal – Goodenough insisted on taking him to an extremely low strip joint. Purefoy expressed the opinion that he had never been into anywhere like it before and didn’t think he wanted to ever again. And anyway the girls were absolutely nothing to write home about though, come to think of it, some of them were so dreadful trying to describe them in a letter might help to exorcize the memory of them. As a result of that remark – Goodenough had found one or two of the strippers rather attractive – their next stop, after Purefoy had practically been forced to have two double Scotches, was at a gay bar filled with transvestites and men in leather where Purefoy was touched up by someone who might have been a lesbian but probably wasn’t. By that time Goodenough was almost convinced, and there was no ‘almost’ about Purefoy’s opinion of Goodenough.

  Goodenough’s next question, put as he leant negligently against the bar, clinched it. ‘Are you by any chance interested in anal-erotic fantasies?’ he asked.

  Purefoy backed hurriedly away from him and bumped into a man wearing a leather thong who seemed to enjoy the encounter. ‘Sorry,’ Purefoy muttered, still keeping a very wary eye on Goodenough.

  ‘Don’t be,’ said the man in the thong. ‘The pleasure’s all mine.’

  Which was, for once, true. Purefoy Osbert wasn’t enjoying himself at all. In fact the whole evening had been excruciating. He had been taken to an
extremely expensive restaurant by a lawyer in rather too light a suit and grey suede shoes who had tried to get him drunk on a huge export-strength gin martini which he had had the good sense to refuse, had then eyed him most oddly throughout the meal, and had seemed particularly interested in his hands and his mouth. After that, presumably to soften him up, the bloody man had made him sit in a filthy strip joint and look at repulsive women taking off their clothes and squirming. Then there had been the insistence on two double whiskies and a bar filled with homosexuals where he wanted to know if Purefoy was interested in anal-erotic fantasies. No wonder the bastard had been looking at him so peculiarly all evening. Purefoy wasn’t waiting around to find out what was going to happen next. Not that he needed to be told. And he had a pretty good idea why he had been offered the Fellowship at Porterhouse when he hadn’t even applied for it.

  Purefoy Osbert headed for the door and had several more distasteful encounters on the way. Behind him Goodenough followed but Purefoy had had enough. ‘Now you just hold it,’ he said menacingly, backing into the road. ‘You just stay away from me.’

  ‘But my dear chap,’ Goodenough said by way of apology, ‘I only wanted –’

  ‘Well, you’re not getting it and that’s for sure. I don’t know how you got the notion … oh yes I do. It’s that bloody cousin of mine – Vera’s idea of a practical joke. My God, I’ll make her pay for it. Dragging me all the way to London.’

  ‘No one is dragging you, I can assure you of that,’ said Goodenough. ‘It’s obvious you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ said Purefoy with a slight slur. Those two double Scotches were having an effect. ‘The stick I’ve got hold of …’ He looked around for a weapon and was nearly run over by a taxi. As he lurched forward Goodenough took his arm.

  Purefoy shook him off. ‘Let’s get this absolutely straight,’ he said and clenched his fist. ‘You may be a fucking poof … gay but I’m not and if you touch me again I’ll –’

  He got no further. A very large person in a loud check suit appeared in front of him. ‘Who are you calling a poof?’ it asked, and promptly delivered a knock-out blow to Purefoy Osbert’s chin. Goodenough caught him and hailed a taxi.

  ‘Earls Court,’ he told the driver and gave the address of Vera’s flat. By the time they arrived there Purefoy’s nose had stopped bleeding and he wasn’t at all sure what had happened. They went up in the lift.

  ‘I don’t think I’d better be around when he wakes in the morning,’ Goodenough told Vera when they’d got Purefoy to bed. ‘It’s been a perfectly ghastly evening.’

  ‘I can see that,’ said Vera. ‘What on earth happened?’

  ‘He thought I was out to seduce him. It’s all the Grimsby bastard’s fault.’

  ‘And you went and hit him because …?’

  ‘I didn’t hit him. That wasn’t me,’ said Goodenough. ‘Some weight-lifting lesbian slugged him for calling me a poofter. And I’ll tell you another thing. He thinks you put him my way so that I could make a pass at the brute. He swore he was going to kill you. You don’t know what it was like. As though I wanted to bed him.’

  ‘And I’ll tell you something,’ said Vera. ‘You’re staying the night and you’re going to bed me. It’s the only way out.’

  They went through to the bedroom and began to undress.

  ‘I have to hand it to you,’ Goodenough said. ‘You certainly pick the perfect candidates. Lady Mary is going to love your Purefoy, and he’s going to cause havoc in Porterhouse.’

  *

  Two days later, and only after a great deal of persuasion and cajoling, Purefoy Osbert went to be interviewed by Lady Mary. He still wasn’t entirely happy about Goodenough’s sexual inclinations. ‘If you’d seen that gay bar,’ he told Vera. ‘I mean I don’t care what people do but it was like a vision of Hell by Hieronymus Bosch. And why did he have to look at me like that?’

  ‘He just had to be sure,’ Vera said.

  ‘Well, I hope to hell he’s sure now. And don’t ever leave me alone with him. He may be as straight as you say he is but if you’d seen the way he looked at my mouth …’

  ‘I can assure you he’s all right. Now let me tell you about Lady Mary Evans …’

  Purefoy Osbert spent an hour with Lady Mary, who still felt safer behind her desk and with the housekeeper’s husband close by. ‘Dr Osbert,’ she said, ‘I see from your application that you have been at Kloone University for eleven years. Isn’t that a long time to remain in the same university? Haven’t you ever wanted to advance your career?’

  ‘My career consists of researching what actually happened,’ said Purefoy, looking without any warmth into her strangely blue eyes. ‘I am not interested in any other approach and I can research the facts I need as well at Kloone as anywhere else. Certainties are to be found in primary source materials and to some extent from secondary opinion, though only where such opinion is confirmed from a separate and wholly unconnected source.’

  Lady Mary nodded, perhaps approvingly. ‘And I see that your area of research is in the methods of penal restraint or, in simpler terms, prisons.’

  ‘With particular reference to capital punishment,’ said Purefoy.

  ‘Of which you approve?’

  Purefoy Osbert almost stood up. ‘Of which I entirely disapprove,’ he said. ‘In fact the word “disapprove” is not adequate to express my convictions. Capital punishment in any form is an act of the utmost barbarity and –’

  He would have gone on but Lady Mary stopped him. ‘I am delighted to hear that,’ she said. ‘Dr Osbert, what you have just said confirms the opinion expressed to me by Mr Lapline, my solicitor, who has been handling the choice of applicants for the Fellowship I am sponsoring at Porterhouse College.’

  Purefoy Osbert stirred in his chair. He wanted the salary the Fellowship would bring with it but he felt it only honest to tell this strange person what he truly thought. ‘I think you ought to know,’ he said, ‘that I have grave reservations about Porterhouse College. It has, I am sorry to say, an exceedingly unpleasant reputation and I am by no means certain I want to go there.’

  In front of him Lady Mary was smiling, if you could call what she was doing smiling. Her yellow teeth gleamed. There could be no mistaking her feelings. ‘My dear Dr Osbert, I trust you won’t mind my calling you that, but your opinion of Porterhouse so entirely concurs with my own feelings about the College that I am prepared to say now that the Sir Godber Evans Memorial Fellowship is yours if you will do me, and of course my late husband, the honour of accepting it.’

  She sat back in her chair and allowed Purefoy to savour the approval she had given him. Purefoy Osbert thought about it.

  ‘I am afraid I need to know rather more before giving my answer,’ he said firmly. ‘I am grateful to you for the offer but my area of concern is not in vague hypotheses and, to be frank, I need to know why I am being offered this post and what the actual nature of your intention is. I have been told it is to prepare material for a biography of your late husband, but in view of the salary or stipend …’ There was no doubt now about Lady Mary’s beam. It was radiant. In fact had she been anyone else, and Purefoy Osbert more perceptive and sensible to the feelings of any woman other than Mrs Ndhlovo, he would have said she had fallen in love with him. Instead he listened while she explained the purpose of the Fellowship.

  ‘I have created it and am offering it to you because my husband’s work at Porterhouse did not receive the recognition it deserved. We … he had intended to make the place one of academic excellence and met a quite astonishing degree of opposition from the Fellows. I want him to have the posthumous recognition and esteem he deserves. And I want to see his policies put into effect.’

  ‘But I don’t really see that I can make any positive contribution,’ said Purefoy.

  ‘I am sure that your presence will be a first step,’ said Lady Mary, leaning forward across the desk very earnestly. She paused and stared with those pale b
lue eyes into his. ‘And, of course, for the purpose of a biography you need to find out everything about his life and, I may say, his death. You may find it fanciful of me but I am not happy with the official explanation and I want to know exactly what happened. The truth, Dr Osbert, that is all. I acknowledge that I am supposed to be a weak and fallible woman but this is a world dominated by men and that is their opinion. For once I am prepared to accept that judgement. I am asking you to establish the facts of the matter. If you uncover certain evidence that proves my darling Godber’s premature death was due to natural causes I shall accept your verdict. All my life I have had to accept unpalatable truths and I have done so on the basis of facts, some of them quite terrible.’ Purefoy Osbert already knew that. The evidence for her past idealism was there on the walls in the signed portraits of some of the twentieth century’s most murderous leaders. Even Purefoy Osbert, who had never taken a very great interest in politics or politicians, was conscious of their presence. Lady Mary’s ideals were evidently those he was used to at Kloone.

  ‘I am sure you are quite the right person for the position,’ she went on. ‘Mr Goodenough will provide you with any additional information you need. There are a number of documents you will find most informative.’ And on this practical note she ended the interview. There was no point in setting out her real aims now. It was much better to let him get to work quickly. Which was what she told Mr Goodenough on the phone when Purefoy had left Kensington Square. He had agreed to go to Porterhouse on the terms stated in the letter and with the guarantee that his researches or investigations into the facts of Sir Godber’s life and death were to be free of any restrictions. Lady Mary had said that she would do nothing to prevent him finding the facts but implied that other people might.

  ‘I was most impressed with Dr Osbert,’ she told Goodenough. Mr Lapline had refused to accept the call (‘Tell her I’m out or dead or in hospital or something,’ he had told his secretary) on the grounds that her impressions of a man who thought Crippen was the innocent victim of a Scotland Yard conspiracy might be as violent as his own.